An Inhospitable Climate
No sooner had the grass begun to sproutThen summer came, and, with it, drought.
All of the seedlings died. A patch of
Dusty ground remains, and this is how
My love for her has gone: at first, it
Grew, a tender thing, but, soon, so
Like the grass, it shriveled; this time,
Not from heat, but from the cold.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
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Written on 2010-06-12 at 20:46
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